


Fireworks

by Skeletons_to_Ashes



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Irestill group, New Years, So does Seruel, kind of sick comfort but Naoise mostly just suffers, soft family vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:47:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28302552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skeletons_to_Ashes/pseuds/Skeletons_to_Ashes
Summary: Naoise catches a cold on a New Years Eve, and is forced to miss the celebration they had planned as a result. Seruel, Heles, and Scathacha; however, chose to remain at his side so they can welcome the new year in together.
Kudos: 2
Collections: GBF Secret Santa 2020





	Fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to wait to post this until the 31st given that it's a New Years fic, but I got excited seeing everyone posting already so I wanted to get this out in time for Christmas so my receiver would have it for the holiday!
> 
> I hope your New Year is a wonderful one, and brings many good things your way!
> 
> Written for @cyrilianriis on twitter for GBFSS2020!

The wail of the wind had mellowed a bit since Seruel had first sat down upon the wooden chair beside the bed, but the cold still manages to seep in through the cracks of the old palace and sends a shiver down his spine. Even the yellowed pages of the book sat upon his lap flutter slightly in the breeze that manages to rustle them from where the window no longer closes in its entirety, and his fingers splay against the text to muffle the deafening sound. A sigh slips into the biting air as he leans back in the chair, his warmth breath tickling his nose when it appears as a visible huff in front of his eyes, and he winces when the chair groans in protest from his shifting. His fingers curl slightly against the page as velvety ears flicker upwards when he feels amber eyes bore down on him. A stern frown was firmly plastered across his sister’s features when he tore his attention away from haphazard pages. She didn’t need to speak for him to understand he was being hushed as if he were a child once more, and they were shuffling down the hallways of the palace long past bedtime. But he doesn’t make any effort to retort, instead his lips purse as he crosses his right leg over his left beneath the book, and maintains his rather rigid posture that threatens to become all the more tense with every rattle that echoes through the old halls of the castle. 

A castle he scarcely recognizes some days. Even this room, one they had spent so much time in as children, was worn down. The soft velvet of the crimson rug positioned beneath his chair had become matted and rough over the years. The golden dish settled beneath the candle upon the nightstand that was nestled against the bed was full of scratches that pricked the melted wax gathered in it beneath it. Even the soft, flaxen glow cast by the candle currently burning within its hold seemed dull compared to what he recalled. The bed, too, had seen better days. The color of the wooden frame had become washed out with time, and there were nicks in the legs from when they had cleaned out the ruble that had once been littered about the entire palace. The remainder of the furniture in the far corner was in a similar state of disarray. The dresser had a hole in it from a monster that had gotten inside, and the work desk was marred by thick claw marks that ruin the once smooth surface he had read countless books on before. The sight is enough to make his brows furrow. 

“You think too much,” Scathacha whispers from where she’s sat on the corner of the bed, the dark fabric of the shawl that’s draped over her slender shoulders spills out over the cream-colored sheets and licks at the scuff marks on the floor. Seruel’s sharp gaze flickers from the old desk to her disinterested gaze, his own expression unreadable, but he gingerly closes the book on his lap. Her bony elbow is propped up on her thigh, and her chin rests in her palm. She truly does resemble a child in this form, even down to the mannerisms she sometimes exhibits. It’s almost too easy to forget who and what she is at times like these. 

“Indeed he does,” Heles echoes from the chair opposite of him. A delicate cup of piping hot tea held by her index and thumb pinching the ornate handle. Steam rolls off of the floral liquid contained within as she tilts her head away from Seruel to observe the uneven stutter of the sheets behind Scathacha. Her forehead wrinkles beneath silver bangs as she observes the man tucked into the bed. His long, blond hair splayed out messily over a collection of lumpy pillows they had borrowed from the common room, and the skin that peeks out from beneath the thin, white fabric of his tunic is damp with sweat. The damp, lukewarm cloth pressed upon his forehead seems to be doing precious little to keep his fever at bay if the slight flush of his normally strict features is anything to go by. 

“That aside,” Seruel begins, clearing his throat with a hoarse cough, his own gaze wandering over to where Naoise now rests in a fitful slumber. His lips pressing into a thin frown as he reaches over to meticulously adjust the cloth. Rough fabric brushing against his equally rough fingers that feel almost frigid against the boiling heat of Naoise’s skin. “It would be best for us to remain -” the words die upon his tongue when he can hear the loud tap of tiny feet in the hall just outside, voices poorly hushed by the excitement that building in them rings out through the palace despite the fact that the children were long since supposed to be put to bed. His ears lower against his scalp as he watches Heles lift a hand to stifle a snort at his dismay. Scathacha was not nearly as merciful or eager to maintain what most would have assumed to be a graceful image. Her snicker soars upwards towards the roof and the siblings quickly shoot her a look in the hope of silencing her before the knight stirred.

But it was much too late, the bed creaks, and her head whips around to catch sight of Naoise’s eyelids peeling back open to the sight of the battered ceiling while his leg pulls upwards weakly from where it had been stretched out over the mattress. A cough rattles his body as he fishes his fist out from beneath the moist sheets to cover his chapped lips as he turns his head to look at her. The expression he makes is a miserable one at best. His brows are pinched together painfully and wayward strands of golden locks are plastered to his cheek and neck. Yet, he still tried to cling to his dignity by clenching his jaw in a pitiful attempt to halt the rattle in his chest, and bites his tongue to keep it from quivering against the wiggle of his nose as he feels a sneeze coming on. The distinct stench of mucus only makes the tickle in his lungs worse, and he can almost feel the corners of his eyes begin to water with the amount of effort he’s putting forward to maintain some semblance of composure for the sake of the two former royals. It appears some old habits are nearly impossible to kill. 

“Why are - “ His voice sticks in his throat so dry and clogged he can barely utter a single word without it sounding forced and strained. The bed begins to tremble ever so slightly beneath the normally poised knight. The old iron legs of the frame squeak in protest, and drown out the muffled sound of his cough as it echoes against the walls. No longer able to contain it any longer.

It’s subtle at first, but slowly a faint cackle can be heard bouncing off of the ceiling as Scathacha’s hand rises to grip at the loose fabric of her tunic as peels of laughter spill from her lungs. The very sight alone is enough to shock the group into weary silence until Heles lifts her own arms to wrap them about her chest. The guards that cover her forearms tremble slightly as the ripple of her own dry chuckle joins the true dragon’s. In a fever-induced daze, Naoise that made him question whether or not he was still dreaming, the knight shot a downright miserable glance in Seruel’s direction. Naoise’s confusion was almost palpable, as if he didn’t trust his own eyes, and his surprise only seemed to mount as he watched the Eurne shake his head when their eyes met. His clammy palms rising to brush locks of stringy hair from his eyes if that would somehow help him see clearly ounce more. 

It takes a few, long moments for the bed to finally stop quaking, and for Scathacha’s laughter to slowly begin to die down. Her slender finger lifting to wipe at the corners of her eyes as she leans back a bit on the mattress, much to Naoise’s dismay and he quickly draws his knee upwards to settle his leg against her back to help prop her up so she wouldn’t fall against the wall. But the motion only earns a sharp roll of the dragon’s eyes as she cranes her neck to look at him, wayward strands of silver locks falling messily out from the silky fabric of her hood. “You look ridiculous,” she concludes. 

“What - “ Naoise barely has the chance to wheeze out the non-question to her claim, his elbows pressing against the springy mattress in an attempt to prop up his sore body. Stiff muscles straining with the meager effort he’s capable of exerting as he wrinkles a clogged nose in the true dragon’s direction - damp, golden locks falling about his broad shoulders in a frazzled frenzy. But he can’t get more than a single word out, before his dreadful voice is cut off.

“She’s right,” Heles chimes in as her own laughter begins to subside. Her voice is stern as always, but there’s a tinge of fondness that seeps into it as she tosses a glance in the knight’s direction. An unspoken order to rest more or she might simply have to take matters into her own hands. 

An order that reaches Naoise loud and clear, his elbows flattening against the bed so he can flop back down gracelessly, all without moving his knee that’s still supporting Scathacha’s quivering back. By the time his head hits the pillow propped up behind him once more, his mind is swimming and he’s seeing strings of flashing lights playing out in front of him as if he’s actually outside watching the fireworks display they had planned instead of cooped up inside staring at the dusty old ceiling of a room that had seen far better days - as had he, at the moment. 

A silent sigh escapes Seruel’s throat. “Sister, with all due respect, Naoise has a fever. I feel this isn’t the best time to speak so unabashedly about him.” He doesn’t need to be directly looking at Scathacha to know the short that echoes against his keen ears is coming from her direction. 

From his awkward position, the knight still manages to raise a sweat-slicked hand as he shakes his head. “No, it’s quite all right. I’m the one at fault for catching a cold and then making all of you miss the celebration. For that, you have my apologies.” He swiftly withdrew his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose while squeezing his eyes shut in hopes of ridding his vision of the flashing lights, though all it did was make the throbbing in his head worse. 

“Look at you, apologizing when you’re the one who’s suffering, typical,” Scathacha chimes, not an ounce of pity seeping into her voice despite the slight upward curve of her lips. 

Heles uncrosses her legs and leans to the side to set her half-full teacup upon the nightstand beside the bed. “He did the same thing when we were younger.” 

“Oh?” Scathacha’s eyes seem to light up at the comment, curiosity dancing across her features as she finally shimmed forward a bit so Naoise’s leg is no longer the only thing keeping her upright, and preventing her head from knocking against the wall. Her fingers coming to settle upon her lap as the tips of her toes just barely reach the floor where she’s now sat at the very edge of the bed. 

“Yes, he’s always been like this.” She gestures to Naoise, as if that somehow explains everything, and, in a way, it does. Enough so that Scathacha hums in agreement, much to Seruel’s dismay, if the grimace that mars his features when he figures out where this story is heading is anything to go off of. “Do the two of you recall that New Year’s Eve we spent hauled up in Seruel’s room when we were children? My brother was the one sick that year, but Naoise spent the entire night apologizing for his oversight.” 

“Sister,” Seruel’s own groan came in unison with Naoise’s, though only one of them had the strength and gall to actually speak up about the matter.

Scathacha mercilessly ignores his plea, not even sparing the former prince a glance. She’s come to learn if she wishes to find out anything about the trio, it was best to hear it from Heles than either of the men. Both had a bad habit of beating around the bush, and she found their ability to actually recite a tale dreadfully boring, no matter how existing that tale should have been. “Somehow, this doesn’t come as a surprise to me.” 

“Sister, truly some stories are better left in the -”

With a huff, Scathacha waves him off. “Both you and Naoise take far too long to speak what’s on your mind. You have me curious now, Heles, continue.”Scathacha cuts Seruel off with little concern, leaving him to lean back against his chair helplessly as Heles ignores her brother's protests and the miserable grunts from Naoise that she imagines are protests in their own, pathetic right. 

“New Year ceremonies were one of the rare occasions we had to spent time together as a family, though those days were rife with greetings and exchanges, even when we were children,” she begins, leaning forward in her chair as she watched Scathacha’s eyes glimmer with impatience, but the little wiggle of her toes where her legs hung off the side of the bed implied she wasn’t entirely disinterested. “Believe it or not, Seruel was a bit of a crybaby when we were younger.” 

“I can believe that,” Scathacha snorted. 

“He would always run to Naoise or Elisheba when something went wrong, but he still tried to hold onto his pride as a prince.” Heles’s lips curl into a grin at her brother’s expense. “One year he came down with a terrible cold after the three of us snuck out to see the Christmas lights. However, he insisted he couldn’t afford to miss the celebration so he pretended to get over his cold before the day arrived. Unfortunately, thanks to his foolishness, he collapsed in the middle of the party and had to be escorted back to his room.”

Seruel could feel the dragon’s scrutinizing gaze on him as he tilted his head to stare out at the flurry of white behind the window, dread building up in the pit of his stomach for what he knew would follow. 

“Why, he even spent most of the night crying in his shame until Naoise and I left the party to keep him company. Naoise apologized the entire way to his room, insisting that he should have realized the young prince was ill and he was to blame for Seruel’s condition. They both looked the part of a dog begging for a bone.” 

Scathacha’s laugh, this time around, was not at all what any of them would have imagined the true dragon’s to sound like, but in the short while since she had truly joined them, all three of them had grown accustomed to it. So, when it fell from her lips like the clamor of bare feet on the castle floors and the giddy, but subdued screeching of the monsters that had ravished the city, none of them could bat an eye, though Naoise’s chapped lips do dare to curve ever so slightly upwards. 

“We missed much of the party, and father was rather displeased with us. Seruel; however, refused to rest until he saw the fireworks, so we had to bundle him up in blankets, and carry him over to the window to watch them. Despite his insistence, all three of us fell asleep the moment they began.” Her thumb brushes against the dents in her arm guards as she relaxes, a fond smile playing out upon her features as the memories come flooding back to her. 

“It seems, this time, that I will be the reason all of you will miss the fireworks this year.” Naoise chokes on another cough he fails to shallow back down. 

“There you go again, blaming yourself.” Scathacha huffs. “Why don’t we watch them through the window like the three of you had planned that year?” With a gentle thud, the soles of her sandals hit the ground as she stands up from the bed, fingers running along the long, violet fabric of her cloak to smooth out the wrinkles it had gathered while she had been sitting upon its folds

“We should. It’s our first New Year with you, Scathacha, we should take this chance to allow you to experience it as properly as we can manage.” Seruel smiles at her, his dignity apparently finally returning to him after he had gone silent during the story a moment ago. He can’t say he dislikes the memory, though there were parts he had hoped Heles would leave out. “What do you say, Naoise, are you feeling well enough to move over to the window?” 

Naoise nods weakly, and Seruel stands up from his chair, setting his book down beside Heles’s forgotten teacup. With his arms now free, Seruel moves to the bedside, removing the cloth from the knight’s head before slipping an arm around the other’s back to support him as Naoise slowly rose from the bed. A fit of coughs rattling his chest even before he managed to follow Seruel’s guidance out from beneath the collection of blankets tangled about his frame. Gently coaxing Naoise onto his feet with only a few pained grunts and sneezes in the process. 

Heles busies herself by grabbing hold of the chairs she and Seruel had been seated in, carrying them over to the window with ease while Scathacha follows after her, tipping her head over her shoulder a handful of times to watch the pair carefully follow after them. Smile crinkling the corners of her cheeks as she pulls herself up onto the windowsill to leave one of the chairs free when she hears the other waddle slightly as Heles sits down beside her. But she can’t look away from the brilliant night sky that stretches out behind the icy glass before her. Her tepid breath fogging up the window as she counts the glittering stars that hang overhead behind a gentle flurry of dizzying snowflakes. She has seen the sky more times than she could count in all of the centuries she’s been alive. It’s nothing new, and it’s hardly marvelous to behold at her age. Yet, there’s something different about it this time around. Somehow it feels grander than it had before. A spark of light she doesn’t lose, even as Seruel carefully helps Naoise down into the remaining chair, and takes up his spot standing beside him. 

“I hope you won’t fall asleep before they start once again, little brother,” Heles laughs after she makes sure Naoise is settled. 

“Given that they should begin shortly, I do not foresee that happening.” Seruel crossed his arms in front of his chest, not daring to pull his eyes away from the darkened skies to look at her. 

Heles could only shrug playfully, lips parting once more, but they close the moment the first streak of light filters through the milky skies, promptly cutting her off. A smile replaces the worry lines upon her skin as she diverts her attention to the array of colors illuminating the blanket of snow covering as far as the eye can see, and watches Scathacha’s face light up at each ray of blue and red and green that speckles the deep navy of nightfall. The distant pop of fireworks threatens to rattle the remains of the castle with each new color that explodes against drifting specs of pearly snow. The fluffy ears atop her head twitch at the giggles and shouts she can hear from the hallways as the children who had tried their best to follow orders scramble out of their beds to join their more mischievous peers and get a better view. 

“I see, so this is how humans celebrate the new year,” Scathacha mumbles to herself as she lifts a petite hand to the cold window and splays her delicate fingers against the glass, watching as a rainbow of colors paints the skies in vivid, but brief flashes of light - something akin to childlike wonder sparking upon her features. Seruel can’t stop the smile that pinches the corners of his lips as he watches her, and thinks back to the days he had spent as a child utterly fascinated by the small handful of things he had known about his father and what it had been like learning more about the kingdom with each passing day. The look she had on her face now, resembled the one he had bore back then, and it tugs at his heart to remember his childhood with a mixture of fondness and apprehension. 

“Maybe I was wrong -” Scathacha begins as the display of lights begins to die down, her chilled fingers pulling away from the window where they leave tiny smudge marks in their wake. She shifts on the windowsill to glance back at them to continue speaking, but her lips wrinkling in confusion briefly as she watches Heles press her index finger to her lips to hush her. Craning her neck to the side, she regards the former princess with trepidation before she finally spots Seruel., and he tilts his head in Naoise’s direction. Her gaze flickers over to the knight where he’s become a heap in his chair. His arms tucked nearly beneath his head where they rest on the windowsill, back curled forward in the chair he was sitting in. Hair a mess where it tumbles against his sunken cheeks, but there’s a pleasant smile still clinging to his pale lips as his chest rises and falls steadily where it's pinned awkwardly against the wall from his hunched angle. 

Scathacha ducks her head to shelter the amused grin that appears on her features as the sight. “Well, it seems someone did fall asleep during the fireworks.” 

“It would appear so,” Seruel sighs, fondness tickling his throat as he glances over at Heles. “Will you help me bring him back to bed, sister?” 

“Of course.” Heles stands from her chair without hesitation, and silently moves to the knight’s side. Her arms wrapping around his waist and shoulder as she slowly guides him up from the chair without waking him. Hold tightening, she carefully slides him onto Seruel’s back, who wraps his arms about the other’s leg and hoists him as best he can without rocking him too much. Gaze lingering on the knight’s peaceful expression for a moment to reassure himself that they hadn’t woken him. 

“After all that, he couldn’t even stay awake,” Scathacha huffs, shaking her head, but there’s no bite to her voice as she moves to stand beside Seruel. Smile still bright upon her features as she exchanges a look with the pair of siblings before all three turn their attention to the slumbering man.

“Happy New Year, Naoise.” 


End file.
